


The Relationship Will Not be Televised

by steelplatedhearts



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe what they have isn't perfect. So maybe Grantaire loves Enjolras far more than Enjolras loves her.</p><p>(An easy task, considering that Enjolras doesn't love her at all.)</p><p>Maybe what they have is enough. And if it's not enough, Grantaire will make it enough, because Enjolras is worth it.</p><p>(Modern AU. Rule 63!Enjolras and Grantaire.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Relationship Will Not be Televised

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this graphic.](http://prideandprejudiceandkittens.tumblr.com/post/41919630991/remixing-les-miserables-modern-genderswap)
> 
> Story-specific graphic [here.](http://steelplatedhearts.tumblr.com/post/42488441704/this-is-probably-going-to-go-live-tonight-because)

Enjolras fucks pretty much like she does everything else—that is to say, intensely, like it’s the most important thing she’s ever done, and with an almost religious fervor.

Grantaire doesn’t understand how she got to be the lucky person Enjolras sleeps with, but she sure as hell isn’t going to question it.

Privately, she thinks it has something to do with the fact that she’s a warm body who’ll let Enjolras go on about politics and the rise of the people for hours. This usually leads to the inevitable conclusion that _any_ warm body will do, and Grantaire isn’t actually anything special. Fine. Whatever. Being with Enjolras by default is better than nothing.

She doesn’t believe in Enjolras’s cause—barely even knows what it is, really. Just that it involves giving the people power, which in Grantaire’s opinion is a load of bullshit.

Giving people power is fine when you’re giving it to people like Enjolras, who care about things. But giving people power means giving _all_ people power, including people like Grantaire.

She shouldn’t be trusted with power. She’d only manage to fuck it up.

She doesn’t tell any of this to Enjolras. Enjolras knows that she doesn’t give a shit, anyway. Best not to start an actual argument.

So she keeps her disbelief confined to snarky remarks and eye rolls, mostly staying in the background and basking in Enjolras’s light.

*   *   *   *   *  

“You’re staring again,” Enjolras says, not looking up from her book.

“Who wouldn’t stare?” Grantaire asks, propping herself up on her elbow. “You look like an angel.”

Privately, Grantaire thinks that ‘angel’ is an insufficient description for Enjolras, posed against the window as she is. The morning light is just starting to peek over the trees, sending rays down behind Enjolras. The effect is illuminating, lighting her up and making her glow, turning her light blonde hair into pure sunlight.

She looks like a goddess, a powerful deity that can channel the sun. Almost like a female Apollo, ready to bring light to the huddled masses.

“An angel,” Enjolras scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “Are you drunk again? Jesus, it’s 8 am.”

“If Lucille Bluth can have vodka for breakfast and still be classy, I can too,” Grantaire says, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow.

Enjolras sighs. “Oh, Grantaire. There’s no hope for you, is there?”

“No,” Grantaire says softly, so softly she’s not even sure if Enjolras can hear her. “Probably not.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“I’m leaving,” Enjolras says on her way out the door, arms full of signs. “Want to come with?”

She asks this every time. Why, Grantaire doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because she feels obligated to. Maybe she hopes that Grantaire will have magically changed, that she’ll suddenly be fucking a girl who cares about something.

But right now, Grantaire is tired and sober and feeling rather vindictive, so she scoffs and says, “Nah, I’ve got better things to do, like talk to some whisky and the Kardashians about how my girlfriend doesn’t love me.”

Enjolras’s mouth twists into a scowl. “How many times do we have to keep going over this? I’m _not_ your girlfriend.”

“Right,” Grantaire says gloomily. “Maybe I should talk to the whisky about _that_ instead.”

“If our arrangement isn’t working for you,” Enjolras says, looking away, “then I can always move out.”

“No!” Grantaire says, too quickly. “It’s fine. Have fun protesting the system.”

She grabs a magazine and opens it, pretending to care about Taylor Swift’s latest boyfriend until she hears Enjolras leave and shut the door behind her.

“Way to go, asshole,” she says, her words echoing through the empty room. “Well done.”

*   *   *   *   *  

Grantaire goes to pick Enjolras up from jail as soon as she gets the message—that is to say, about 4 hours after Enjolras calls.

She fills out the various papers and sits down, waiting for them to bring Enjolras out. When they do, Grantaire’s breath catches in her throat.

Even covered in dirt and paint from whatever protest she’d been at, Enjolras is a vision, brighter than anything else around her—and definitely far brighter then Grantaire.

You think she’d be used to this. Enjolras’s face and glow have never changed.

But her radiance still catches Grantaire off guard, every single time.

“Do I want to know what took you so long?” she asks in the parking lot.

“I was asleep,” Grantaire says.

“And by ‘asleep,’ you mean ‘hung over,’ right?”

Grantaire ignores this. “And besides, you don’t normally call me for these things.”

“Courf has a job interview,” Enjolras mutters. “And Combeferre is out of town.”

Typical, Grantaire thinks gloomily. The one time Enjolras needs her, and Grantaire’s not her first choice.

Well, better third choice than not even on the list.

*   *   *   *   *  

Grantaire wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night. Moonlight is pouring in through the window, falling over Enjolras’s side of the bed and leaving Grantaire in the shadows.

(She would laugh at this, if it wouldn’t wake Enjolras.)

She lies there and studies the beautiful woman sleeping next to her. She thinks she could spend a lifetime of watching Enjolras in the light and never be tired of it.

She reaches out, running a strand of Enjolras’s blonde hair between her fingers. “I love you,” she whispers, because it’s the dark of the night and Enjolras will never hear it.

But it turns out that Enjolras is sleeping lighter then Grantaire thought, because she frowns, cracks open an eye, and mutters, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I love you,” Grantaire says, rather stupidly, because in for a penny, in for a pound, right?

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” Enjolras mutters. “I’m not awake enough for this.” She reaches for her alarm clock and groans at the time. “Look, you know I don’t love you the way you want me to.”

“I know,” Grantaire says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re my friend that I care about,” Enjolras says, staring at the ceiling. “And you’re also my roommate that I sometimes have sex with. But—that’s all you can be. That’s all I can give you.” She sighs. “I know you said you were fine with just this, but if you want more—it’s not fair to you, I can move in with Marius until I find my own place—”

“Please don’t,” Grantaire says, hating how pathetic she sounds. “I’m sorry I’ve been so pushy about it lately, I can back off.” She rolls over, curling away from Enjolras. “Something’s better than nothing.”

She hears Enjolras groan. “God, I feel like such a jackass.”

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says again.

“Quit apologizing,” Enjolras says. “It isn’t your fault.”

She falls silent, and Grantaire doesn’t say anything more.

*   *   *   *   *  

She goes to Eponine’s the next day, for their weekly BBB Fridays—BBB standing for booze, balconies, and beanbags. Eponine supplies an overabundance of cheep beer, Grantaire brings a duffel bag stuffed full of vodka and whiskey and wine, and they haul Eponine’s beanbag out onto her flat’s tiny balcony to get drunk and stare at the stars.

“I fucked up,” Grantaire says once they’re both good and wasted. “I think I fucked up really badly.”

“What’d you do, puke on one of Enjolras’s banners?” Eponine asks, rolling her eyes.

“I told her I loved her,” Grantaire says, and Eponine chokes on her drink.

“Holy _shit,_ ” she says, eyes wide. “What did she say?”

“She started talking about moving out,” Grantaire says, miserable. “Why couldn’t I have just been happy with what I had?”

“It’s not wrong to want something that’ll make you happy,” Eponine says. “But at the same time, you can’t blame her for not being able to give you what you want. It’s a shitty situation for everyone, really.”

“You’re wise when you’re drunk.”

“It’s not the drunkenness,” Eponine scoffs. “It’s my _life_.”

Grantaire snorts. “Right, how’s that going again?”

“I finally met his girlfriend,” Eponine says, despairingly. “And she’s _wonderful.”_

Grantaire winces in sympathy. “Ouch.”

She listens to Eponine complain about Marius for another three hours, and hardly thinks about Enjolras at all.

When the drinks are all gone, she treks back to her own flat, only to find Enjolras loading boxes into her car.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” Enjolras says.

“You’re still my friend,” Enjolras says.

“You deserve someone who can give you the kind of relationship you want,” Enjolras says.

“I just want you to be happy,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire doesn’t even try to explain that Enjolras _is_ what makes her happy, even if it’s not ideal. She doesn’t even attempt to stop Enjolras as she drives away, telling Grantaire that she’ll be at Marius’s, and to call soon.

She just stares at the disappearing taillights, a hollow feeling in her stomach, and then goes inside and curls up on the couch.

*   *   *   *   *  

She refuses to call Enjolras, because that would be pathetic.

Not that what she’s doing—wallowing in a haze of drunkenness and self-pity—isn’t pathetic as it is. But calling Enjolras would be more pathetic. So she doesn’t.

No matter how much she wants to.

Eponine calls her on day three. “Leave me alone,” Grantaire snaps before Eponine has a chance to speak.

Eponine ignores her. “Turn on the news,” she says, voice tight. “Right now.”

Grantaire fumbles for the remote and flips away from Honey Boo-Boo. “What’s going—oh, _fuck._ ”

There’s a full-scale riot downtown, according to the anchorwoman. There’s a crowd of angry people flipping things over, hurling rocks at the faceless army of SWAT officers advancing towards them, and breaking windows left and right. If Grantaire squints, she can see a blonde girl in the middle of the crowd, her fist in the air, shouting defiantly.

“The revolution’s started,” Eponine says dully. “And we’ve been left behind.”

“I’m going down there,” Grantaire says, lurching off the couch. “We’ve been left behind, but that doesn’t mean we have to _stay_ behind.”

“I didn’t know you believed in the revolution,” Eponine says.

“I don’t even know what it’s about. But Enjolras believes in it, and I believe in her.” She pauses, making a face. “God, that sounded stupid. But you know what I mean. Anyway, the way that’s going, she’s going to get arrested again, and she can’t afford that.”

“So, what,” Eponine says, skeptical. “You’re just going to run down there and save the day?”

“That sounds like you think I have a plan,” Grantaire says, grabbing her bag. “Nice to know you think so highly of me.”

*   *   *   *   *  

If the riot had looked bad on TV, it’s nothing compared to how it looks in reality. The crowd is an entity unto itself, swirling around in patterns and waves that make Grantaire forget that it’s made up of just people.

She gets elbowed in the face and stomach within 20 seconds of entering the crowd, and decides to start preemptively punching anything that comes towards her, whether it’s a civilian or a SWAT officer.

She smacks into Courfeyrac, who gapes at her and says, “Taire, what are you doing here?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer him, instead plunging further into the riot. Enjolras will be smack in the middle of it all, and she intends to be where Enjolras is.

She finally spots the blonde standing on an overturned car, screaming herself hoarse and throwing rocks at the line of riot control officers. Before Grantaire can reach her, Enjolras is knocked off the car by an officer with a baton and falls to the ground. He starts to drag her away and Grantaire stands where she is, paralyzed.

“Sorry, Mr. Jameson,” she says, digging the bottle out of her bag. “You’re getting spilled for a good cause.”

And before she can talk herself out of it, she races after Enjolras and the officer, smashing the bottle over his head.

He staggers away, giving Grantaire just enough time to haul Enjolras to her feet and help her out of the crowd.

“What—Taire, what the fuck are you doing here?” Enjolras says, slightly dazed.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” Grantaire says. “Shit, Enjolras—your nose—”

“Is it broken?” Enjolras asks, touching her nose gingerly. “Some asshole got a good hit in with his anti-riot shield.”

Grantaire winces. “I’m no expert, but that is definitely broken. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No,” Enjolras growls. “No hospitals. I just started a goddamn riot, they’re going to be looking for me.”

“Well, where else should I take you?” Grantaire says, exasperated.

Enjolras closes her eyes. “Home,” she says finally. “Take me home.”

*   *   *   *   *  

“You’ll have to set it,” Enjolras says from the couch, holding a towel to her nose and watching Grantaire hastily clean up the bottles and tissues left from her three-day pity party.

“What—your nose? Oh, no, no way,” Grantaire says. “I mean, if we’re being honest, I’m still a little bit drunk right now. You don’t want me anywhere near your nose. Maybe we should call Joly.”

“Will you just do it?” Enjolras snaps. “We don’t have time to wait around for Joly. For all we know, he could be in jail right now.”

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire says. “What do I do?”

“Just sort of straighten it out,” Enjolras says, tipping her head back. “Don’t worry about getting it perfect.”

“ _Don’t worry_?” Grantaire repeats incredulously.

Enjolras shrugs. “It’s just a nose. What do I care how it looks?”

“Okay. Okay,” Grantaire says, psyching herself up. “I can do this.”

She takes a deep breath, and starts aligning Enjolras’s nose as best as she can. Enjolras winces in pain, but doesn’t make a sound.

“There,” Grantaire says finally. “What do you think?”

Enjolras studies her nose with her phone. “Looks good.” She lowers her phone, staring at Grantaire. “So what _were_ you doing at the riot? I didn’t think you believed in the revolution.”

It’s a perfect set-up, but Grantaire is _not_ going to repeat the same stupid line from earlier, _especially_ not to Enjolras. So she settles on, “I was worried about you.”

Enjolras sighs. “Yeah, I was afraid it was something like that.”

“I want you to move back in,” Grantaire says before she can lose her nerve. “I don’t care that you love revolutions and riots more than me. Only getting a little bit of you is better than none at all.”

“I might not love you the way you want,” Enjolras says, “but I care enough about you to know that you deserve someone who’ll make you happy.”

Grantaire sighs. “Look, I know this makes me sound stupid and probably weirdly co-dependent, but I’m a million times happier with you just in the same flat than I would be if I had a girlfriend who told me how much she loved me every day.”

“I’ll accept that you’re enough of an adult to know what you’re getting into,” Enjolras says. “Just—some ground rules?”

Grantaire nods.

“Revolution comes first,” Enjolras says, counting off on her fingers. “Don’t tell me you love me. I have a fund set aside in case I need to be bailed out, so you’ll have access to that. Try to keep your phone on.”

“What’s your stance on cuddling?” Grantaire asks.

“In moderation.” Grantaire nods, and they shake on it.

There’s no dramatic making up, they don’t hug or kiss or cry. Instead, they watch the riot cleanup on the news, they call the rest of Les Amis to make sure nobody’s in prison, and Grantaire listens to Enjolras talk about how the next revolution will be successful, even if this one wasn’t.

They don’t cuddle up to each other once they’ve gone to bed, but when Grantaire reaches out to take Enjolras’s hand, Enjolras doesn’t push her away.

It is far from perfect.

But if Grantaire wanted perfect, she wouldn’t be here.

It's not perfect, but it's good enough, and that's all that matters.


End file.
